Batman: What The F--- Just Happened
by MidnightMarauder1
Summary: Halloween 2015. Some people decide to dress up as their favorite superheroes as hilarity and drama ensue.


**Author's note: **

I do not own rights to the following characters.

All events are fictional.

**Chapter 1 - The Halloween Party**

"_My friends and I—we've cracked the code._

_We count our dollars on the train to the party._

_And everyone who knows us knows that we're fine with this,_

_We didn't come from money."_

They are playing that song from a few years ago.

I hate this song.

I really do.

It used to be okay. The first fifty times I heard it. Then it just got annoying.

Why it is being played in 2015 is beyond me.

This is not a good sign for a Halloween party. Good music is crucial.

One time I heard "Fancy" and "Turn Down For What" for the first time at a party I was sure I was going to loose my s$# on the dance floor.

"How long does this go on," I say to no one in particular.

"How long does what go on cupcake," my best friend _Peter _responds.

"This?"

He looks around in his sunglasses.

"As long as you want it to, I suppose."

"I have an 8:15am presentation tomorrow at little company called Wayne Enterprises."

"No one is putting a gun to your head to stick around if you need your beauty sleep."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

He wants me to say:

"The night is still young."

That is our little catchphrase that we bat around.

But I am not in a gaming mood tonight.

So why in G-d's name am I at this lame Halloween party.

Because I can never say "no" to a frackin' Halloween party that's why.

"What am I dressed as," you ask?

Well that's a little complicated.

I tell people I am Liz Lemmon dressing as the Catwoman, unfortunately the truth is that this is me trying to honestly dress like Catwoman. My glasses are over the wool knitted mask and trash bags with duck tape finish the job thanks to my dear friend for the last hour. I am still working on my posture to sell the outfit, but after ten seconds I can't hold my shoulders back; I end up rolling them forward and down, assuming my natural human resource posture. Watch out world.

Pete talks about how Batman was seen yesterday with the Catwoman and evidently he needed stitches in his side. Catwoman went unscathed.

I look around and once I am convinced that Peter and I are on a little social island onto ourselves, I struggle to start a conversation with him.

"What's with the shirt?"

"Funny you should ask. I was going for the whole Sheldon Cooper thing, but I honestly the whole Bizinga thing so, I am so over it, so I made this little number."

Shirt says: Blammo!

"Nothin' says Halloween like home crafts," I respond.

"Indeed Ms. Lemmon."

Pete's head has been glued to his Android all night, but something catches his eye.

"Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness oh my – lookie, lookie, lookie?"

I look at this horrible Batman with worse posture than me. Cardboard, actual cardboard with markers.

He drew a six pack for his abs.

He's tall I will give him that.

I honestly do not know whether to laugh or to cry.

He wears glasses as well. Thick.

"I hear glasses over the mask is all rage in Seoul," Pete smiles.

"That's where I got the idea from," I retort.

"Whoop – mayday - mayday – target approaching whoopa – whoopa," Pete says.

Batman comes clobbering over with these flippers.

"O'Douls," he says to the bartender.

I could not make this stuff up if I tried.

"Hey Captain America," Pete can't resist.

"It's – Batman," he says in his best throaty impression.

"Wooo it certainly is," Pete feigns fear.

"Which Catwoman are you," he asks me invading my personal space.

"Excuse me?"

"Which Catwoman are you?"

Pete is smiling so hard I think his teeth are going to chip off.

"You know – Eartha Kitt, Julie Newmar, Michelle Phieffer, Lee Meriwether, Anna… Please do not say Halle Berry."

I am starting to suspect that my Batman is somewhere on the autism spectrum. The jury is still out on just how severe it is.

"I donno. I am just Catwoman."

He is dying. It is so painfully obvious he wants me to ask him the same question in return.

Pete raises his eyebrows a few times...goading me.

"Pray tell which Batman are you are you good sir," Pete comes in.

I try to walk away, but Pete slaps a casual arm around me.

"Adam West – the only true Batman."

"Utterly fascinating," Pete replies, "don't you agree?"

"Yes…fascinating," I am chewing on my stir stick.

"Blammo," he shrieks as he pushes me into Mr. West.

"Have fun you two. Now Mr. West I expect her home at nine sharp not a second later."

Pete laughs as he exits. He is always laughing.

"What's with that guy?"

"Peter Parker? He's a friend."

"It is probably not my place to say this, but there is a slight chance that man might be a homosexual."

I nearly spill my drink into Mr. West's corrugated abs.

"…a slight chance…"

That is hilarious.

"You think?" I try to say as sincerely as I can. "Well I will be sure to tell him that next time I see him." 

To make a long story short, I try to evade Mr. West as he goes on about his utility belt, Chinese throwing stars, and the intricate work that went into all the pieces of his costume that is currently on display. I order another drink and he continues follows me everywhere. Soon people start thinking we are a couple and we planned this. This equates to being hit in the face with cream pies all night.

He follows me upstairs where things get quieter. We hear some grunting sounds I am 99.9 and a half percent sure I know what I am listening to. And I hear more than two people. Curious. Mr. West on the other hand believes that there is some kind of nefarious scandal underfoot. The door is locked, but he actually has the gall to smash through - someone else's door. My jaw is on the floor. I am conflicted whether to look in the room and see if the number in my head equals the number in the room or to focus all my attention on Mr. West's reaction.

I chose Mr. West and he did not disappoint. At first he was still sure it was something that needed his paper throwing stars. After about five long seconds, a cold realization hits him. He's face turns white and he begins losing his balance. I literally had to catch this guy and close the door gently from behind simultaneously.

I take him to the roof. He sits down to catch breaths.

I look up at the stars and moon.

"It is suppose to be a full moon tomorrow."

Nothing from him.

"My friends tell me I am known to get a little nutty around them."

"That was really wrong," he manages under his shallow breaths.

"Yeah, how so?"

"How so?" He is insulted at the very notion that he has to defend himself.

"Isn't….isn't…obvious."

A true-blooded American, front and center, boy I cannot get enough of your puritanical – repression filled – hypocritical culture.

He still looks like he has seen a ghost.

"It has been a long time for you, hasn't it."

"Yes, a long time."

He is a horrible liar. He is a late-twenty something virgin if there ever was one, but I am not going to touch that. If I did he would probably shrivel up on the roof and we would need the paramedics to get him down.

I look at his big awkwardly long flippers. I really shouldn't, but I cannot resist:

"you know what they say about guys with big feet?"

He honestly doesn't, it is written all over his face.

Then, he pieces it together, and he tenses up.

He is retreating inside himself like a turtle in his shell.

His face is getting really red. He is not breathing.

Really smart Ms. Lemmon. Really smart.

"Hey, hey, where are going," I kneel down to look right in his eyes.

He is trembling. I slap his cheeks lightly to bring him out of his thoughts.

"Stay with me Adam. Stay with me." He is not looking at me. I doubt he can even hear me over his racing thoughts.

Suddenly it hits me.

"Hey, hey, I changed my answer," I say.

He's eyes follow me as I stand.

"I am Sean Young's Catwoman, paying homage to her and her stalker, restraining order skills with the great Tim Burton."

He looks at me, snoot coming from his nose.

Like a mouse he exhales, "good answer."

I cannot help, but smile. He goes into his utility belt and brings up a 16 oz. bottle of Arrowhead water. I have no idea where that thing was hiding. He chugs long and hard, before making a satisfying vocal exhalation.

He is coming back to reality.

I sit across from him. I study his face.

"Nice meeting you," he stands as if he is about to go. The funny thing is, he is sincere. He is sincere with everything. He sees me looking at him and he sits back down and starts wiping his face as if, my look infers that there is something on his face.

"What?"

"Do you…do you mind…"

"Do I mind wha-"

I have to see. I slowly, oh so delicately go for his glasses like a groom touching his bride's veil.

"You've got this cat all curious."

He resists with a bunch of nonsensical grunts and noises.

He looks…all right.

"You should…um…" I avoid his piercing stare, "you should think about the possibility of getting contacts, you know, if you want."

I barely finish before he moves my chin towards him. He removes my glasses, oh so gingerly.

I know they are only glasses, but I feel…exposed.

He just stares. I am waiting for the punch line, like "you look better with these things on." Stuff I heard all throughout high school.

But nothing. His face just goes bright red.

"Okay, Mister Silver Tongue, show's over."

I take my glasses back, put them back on, and look out onto the city.

"The real Catwoman and Batman are out there somewhere," he says.

"I guess."

I hear "Peter Gunn" being played in the party. Better than Lorde.

He seems fixated on one part of the city. Upon closer inspection there is old woman about to cross the street, but a few blocks up the road there is this dilapidated Corolla driving erratically. Another hero's mission no doubt.

"Hey I heard last night Batman got into this scrap with Catwoman. She left him this scar – can you believe it…"  
As I talk I move my fingers slowly down to his abdomen.

"…he needed to get stiches right...right…there."

I stick my finger playfully into his left abdomen. But instead of smiling, he screams.

Really.

Really loud.

Ohhh-kay.

Of things I was expecting, that was not one of them.

I snap my finger back and my eyes stop blinking on their own.

I turn away.

Unable to look at him.

That crazy Corolla is getting closer to the old woman.

A block in the other direction, my eyes fixate on an armored truck, parked next to Gotham Federal. A few guards exit with empty bags. Any minute now they will be coming out with…full bags.

"I heard a similar rumor as well," he says.

I tense up.

His voice has changed. "I heard Catwoman did not leave unscathed as the papers reported…"

The guards are coming out with their money.

The Corolla is seconds away from impact.

He brings me to my knees by twisting my leg down from behind using his leg. Rips the garbage bag around my back, I can only guess that he takes note of series of stitches I've sustained.

"You tear anymore of that bag sailor and I'm going to have to start chargin' you."

Okay, we come to the point in the story where I would go in detail about not trusting the narrator of this story, but honestly sister there just ain't enough time to go this whole Humbert Humbert bullshit. Plus, I refuse to take complete responsibility for this, like an abused wife, you are the one living in denial if you did not see this coming a mile away.

Even with one good leg I twist out from under him.

I stand with my one stronger leg bracing me at the ledge, my posture becomes taunt, I smile…

\- Well this is awkward -

…before plummeting down like a bag of sand.

He is no doubt contemplated the old woman or me.

I can see him from the fire escape below.

His utility belt flashes out a zip line and off he goes.

With a few seconds at my disposal, which is all the time in the world for me, I set my sights on the armored truck.

I take out the street light above the truck for privacy.

He grabs the old woman, seconds from certain death; blows out the tires on the suspect's car, while simultaneously creating a separate zip line in my direction.

He drops down perfectly from the zip line into the back of the truck. I am long gone at this point, but I left him a little souvenir. I left my wool knit mask with a short letter:

"Sometimes you just cannot get rid of a bomb Mr. West.

Sincerely

-XX"

**To Be Continued….**


End file.
